


Love Me Endlessly

by Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Deductions, He's discovering what it means to love, I'm Sorry, I'm exhausted and I just needed to write this, In a way, Love, M/M, Romance, Sherlock Needs Mycroft's Help, really - Freeform, so much love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:38:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya/pseuds/Obviously_Sherlocked_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But sentiment, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me Endlessly

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine. It's eleven-thirty at night, and I couldn't resist. It was too good an idea to pass up, but I think I botched it. Either way, I hope you all enjoy. <3 xx

Love.

L-O-V-E.

Pronounced l-u-v.

Definitions limited, but not included to:

  1. Tender affection for another. Affection as to that of a close relative; platonic mate; spouse/significant other; personal possessions and/or locations; etc.

  2. Desire. May be romantic, chaste, virtuous, etc; may be animalistic, physical, sexual longing.

  3. To adore: To enjoy, more so than average liking.




Synonyms:

affection; adoration; friendship; tenderness; feeling; fondness; devotion; loyalty

Antonyms:

hatred; detest; abhor; disgust; sorrow; unhappiness; enmity; indifference

Yes, that is what love is.

But,

What _is_ it?

Break it down, Sherlock.

Rip it apart.

Coax every inch of information from the very core.

Find the solution.

It’s simple.

Simple, Sherlock.

John did it.

Twice.

John did it correct.

Once.

Once?

Yes, once, of course, only once.

No.

Yes.

Wait.

Which attempt at domestic bliss was correct?

Attempt One?

Attempt Two?

No.

Neither.

Both.

Can’t be.

Must be _one_.

One.

Person.

Life.

Union.

Family.

Household.

Just one.

No more.

No less.

How did he do it?

Sherlock, _think_.

Meeting.

Yes, meeting people.

Begin.

Beginnings.

No. Cross it out.

Beginning ~~s~~.

Two lives become one.

They entwine.

Tangle.

Bond.

That’s it.

Oh, that’s it!

The bond; the immeasurable, unmistakable, indefinite bond, between two linked souls!

**Haven’t forgotten John’s cliché, petty attempts at poetry to his endless count of girlfriends, have you, Sherlock?**

Mycroft.

**Admit it, Sherlock.**

There is nothing to admit.

**There is. It’s the solution.**

The final piece of the puzzle.

**Precisely, dear brother.**

**Now,**

**_Say it_.**

There is nothing to say!

**Stop lying to yourself. Needless occurrences of stress are only a setback.**

I know they are. You speaking is needless.

**I’m not speaking. You are configuring an image of me, and having it speak to you. Subconscious clarity to your heart’s feelings, Sherlock.**

I know!

**Then, just say it.**

I can’t.

**Won’t.**

Shouldn’t.

**Wouldn’t.**

Mycroft, please, it’s impossible.

**Nothing is impossible; improbable, yes, but impossible, never.**

My chest hurts.

There’s a burn.

Everything feels heavy and tight.

I don’t like it.

**That’s because you —**

Don’t. Say. It.

**I’m correct, though.**

Wrong.

**No, I’m not.**

Yes, you are.

**I’m not even myself. You can’t argue with yourself.**

I can.

**_Sherlock_.**

John has gotten it correct. I am no longer eligible.

**Remember where you are.**

Where I am?

**Where you are.**

Where am I?

Home.

Baker Street. Flat 221B.

There’s the scent of Mrs. Hudson’s freshly baked biscuits before bed. Too much flour.

It’s springtime. May. The third. Fourteenth year of the twenty-first century.

It’s raining. It’s London. London, England. The United Kingdom of Great Britain. Europe.

**Too far, Sherlock. Be specific. Details. _Important_ details.**

Bedroom. My bedroom. I’m in my bedroom.

On the bed. Covered.

Did I sleep?

Not likely. If so, restless.

Bags under eyes. Beads of sweat on brow. Mussed sheets. One pillow collected on the floor.

Certain. Did not rest peacefully. Tossing.

Nightmares?

No. Restlessness. Buggering issue. Worried thoughts.

What could be worrying me?

John.

It’s John, it’s always John.

Leaving. John leaving.

No, not him leaving.

It’s me.

I leave. No, left.

I left him.

He was there. He loved and cared and protected the miniscule embodiment left of a human that had become of Sherlock Holmes.

Always.

Stop.

Clench eyes shut.

Check pulse.

Elevated. Twenty beats higher than normal rate.

Breathe.

The intake, physically, is fully operational.

I can’t feel it.

No air flow.

Mind is buzzing.

Everything is numb.

I feel light-heated.

**Sherlock, breathe.**

I am.

**You aren’t.**

I am.

**Think of John. Think of him, and breathe.**

John.

The conductor of light.

The broken toy soldier.

The medical savior.

The man with the shattered heart.

His smile. The dips and curves of mouth. He frowns more than he smiles. Uncertain study. Must examine further. His lips, thin, firm, and the color of a nineteen-ninety-three Cabernet Sauvignon, swirling in its glass, rich with life and an aroma of better days.

**How poetic.**

I’m working.

**Carry on.**

Eyes. They’re cerulean. I’ve analyzed them. They twist and mingle with unnamed shades of blue, forming an ocean of emotion and inner turmoil. His pupils dilate often. One false glance, and they engulf his irises, leaving them to be nothing, other than thin crescents against the blackness.

Shall I continue this pathetic spiel, or shall we proceed into a conversation truly worthy of our time?

**This was for yourself, Sherlock.**

What?

Oh, yes.

Panic attack.

**Stop thinking.**

I can’t stop thinking. Why would I ever stop thinking? Halting the thinking process is utterly ridiculous.

**You missed something. That’s why the offer was suggested.**

Missed something? Mycroft, I don’t miss things.

**You do. You are. Right now, at this very moment.**

What are you —

Oh.

_Oh_.

**You’re slipping.**

Middle age, dear brother.

**You’ve barely entered you thirties. Don’t change the subject. What’s beside you?**

Something important.

**The most important something there is.**

Yes.

**Do you understand now?**

Yes.

**Excellent. Now, finish it. All of it.**

Thank you.

**Don’t thank me. I am merely a configuration of your subconscious.**

Either way, I thank you, Mycroft.

**You’re welcome, I suppose.**

The white noise has quieted.

The pillow is situated back into place. The duvet is gripped by two, entirely, warm bodies, pressed together, in unconscious dependence. One, the small of the two,  holds the hand of their spouse, rolling the golden, engraved wedding band over said spouse’s ring finger.

“I love you.”

It’s been said. It’s always said. By them. First. Always.

“I love you too.”

The first of its kind. The returned expression of affection. Their eyes lock. Both pairs are big.

“You love me.”

“I love you.”

“That’s a first.”

“I needed to think.”

“Did you figure everything out?”

“Mm, most, yes.”

“What else is left?”

“How you could love a man like myself?”

“Alright, so you did figure it all out.”

“What?”

“There’s no why or how in love, Sherlock.”

“There isn’t?”

“No, sweetheart. It’s all feeling. No logic. No answers.”

“But, I found answers.”

“You learned the fervor of your feelings. Different.”

“John.”

“Sleep, darling. You need it.”

“But, I—”

“It can wait till morning.”

“It can, but—”

There was an annoyed huff of breath, before a safe, heated tightness encased him, and every thought seeped away, floating to the open air, and disappearing.

The worry followed.

Yes.

This is it.

This is what love is.

He didn’t remember Attempt Two’s name, never again. It was only John.

His John Hamish Watson-Holmes.

Certainly a charming title, for an awfully charming man.


End file.
